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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29276571">My goddess</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles'>Wrathofscribbles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hades (Video Game 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:07:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,372</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29276571</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He'll kneel for none, except for one.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ares/Nyx (Hades Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>My goddess</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Kinkmeme fill.  This doesn't meet the entire criteria, but I saw it, had a flash of inspiration, and had to write it.  Rated mature for now as there will be a second chapter at some point, and that certainly <em>won't</em> be T rating territory.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She cares not for the countless battles fought under his influence, nor the many dead arriving in the Underworld with the invocation of his name smeared on their lips like blood and bruises.  Yet he cares so very much for the gift she bestows upon all, god and mortal alike, a shawl of deepest black thrown across the sky and plunging the world into darkness.  While some mortals sleep in those hours, there are others who take to stealth, silent and sure as lions on the hunt as they prowl through the land of friend and foe alike.  The path of daggers in those deepest of shadows can turn the tide of war more often than not in <em>his</em> favour, and he knows.  He <em>knows</em>: there is a debt to repay with every blade drawn and life taken at night.</p><p>For Nyx, and Nyx alone, Ares goes to his knees.  In the quiet of her night he says his thanks. In the closest to peace he will ever be, he lowers his guard and forgoes his armour and weapons.</p>
<hr/><p>Then comes the shock, the earthquake to unseat them all and have their eyes <em>wide open</em>.  A feast thrown by Hades and his Queen, the missing Persephone, alive and well and gracious as she's ever been.  None need be versed in the art of war to <em>taste</em> the fury in the air, to feel its rumbling from Demeter, but that particular family feud is none of his concern.  No, let them deal with their own conflicts, for Ares' eyes are elsewhere: Nyx herself, in the flesh.  A beauty to rival Aphrodite (eclipsing her, in truth, but beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, does it not?), skin so pale as to appear moon-kissed even in the Underworld's gloom, and her <em>eyes</em>.  They settle on none, they see all, and when they rest upon him the breath stutters in his lungs for in their golden depths is a power so ancient even Zeus is a speck in comparison.</p><p>"For you, my goddess," he says, quiet as the last breath of the dying, as he grazes his fingers against the second crystal bottle he'd brought.  The first a gift of nectar, for one should never greet one's hosts with an empty hand but this?  An <em>offering</em>.  Of ambrosia, so much finer than the words he can spin on his tongue.  Her painted mouth moves just so, a small upward curl on the left side, the barest hint of an acknowledgement he's granted.  And later, when tensions have settled and laughter flows freely, there is an <em>invitation</em> in the steadiness of her gaze and the tip of her head.  One Ares accepts.</p>
<hr/><p>He is, perhaps, understandably confused when he steps through the portal she'd left in her wake.  From the Underworld - into a cave?</p><p>"Without invitation to Olympus, I find myself denied entry," she says from behind him, so close her breath stirs the fine hair at the nape of his neck, and the ichor coursing through his veins.  Few can claim to sneak up on War himself, fewer still without a responding blade in their gut for the impudence, but <em>her?</em></p><p>Ares trembles at the faintest touch of her power, just a skim of it at his ankles as she comes around him, floating.  She is taller in stature, made all the more so with her feet off the ground, and he must tip his head to look <em>up</em> at her.  As it should be.</p><p>"You presume much, O War, in your address of me."  A statement too soft for rebuke, an <em>observation</em>, and he inclines his head in the barest of bows, lowers his eyes to the ground.</p><p>"My apologies for such a transgression, Lady Nyx, I meant no offense.  Only to highlight my regard for you, my gratitude for your aid over the many years I have sown battle and bloodshed alike."</p><p>"Yes, I have heard your thanks, as I have taken my shawl from the sky."</p><p>He deepens his bow then, folds at the waist and renders himself vulnerable in front of her, not daring to <em>hope</em>.  "I would worship you as mortals do, and serve as they do not."</p><p>A moment of silence.  Two.  Three.  Then:</p><p>"You would <em>serve?"</em>  There - the first shift in tone he's heard from her since first stepping into the Underworld.  <em>He dare not hope.</em></p><p>"I would.  For she who deserves our respect, for she who is greater than us all."</p><p>"Then you will serve me with ambrosia, surrender your weapons, and you will <em>kneel</em>."</p><p>He does.</p>
<hr/><p>Nyx is... not cruel.   He didn't expect her to be, but confirmation of it is still... appreciated. The cold does not affect her as it does him, it doesn't raise goosebumps on her skin, yet a flick of her wrist has a fire crackling in its pit all the same.  Save a chair, table, and a solitary cup, there are no furnishings in the cave, but her power stirs and in a swirling vortex of stars her arm vanishes up to the elbow, then reappears with a cushion in hand.  This, for <em>him</em>, once he has poured the ambrosia and laid his weapons at her feet and taken a step back to <em>kneel</em> as commanded.  Nyx has said nothing more, and he does not ask.</p><p>He doesn't raise a hand to stop her when she divests him of his armour, slow and meticulous, strips him down to his chitoniskos and has it pool over the belt secured 'round his waist. He watches as her eyes take note of the scars laid bare, the map they make of his immortal flesh.  In her face there is no judgement, from her mouth no question, and so Ares continues to hold his silence, match his patience to hers.  Endless.  Serve, and kneel.  Nothing else.</p><p>She could take up any one of his blades (or one of her own weapons, no doubt hidden within the folds of her power) and drive it through his heart, his belly, his <em>skull</em> if she so wished.  She <em>could</em>, others would, but she doesn't.  She resumes her seat and lifts the cup to her lips and over it... her eyes watch him.  Serve, and kneel. Nothing else.</p><p>Time passes, neither fast nor slow in this moment between them, marked only by their breathing and the slosh of liquid whenever she takes to swirling the ambrosia she savours.  The chill of winter creeps in around her warding fire, seeps through stone and dirt until even the cushion cannot keep a dull ache from settling in his knees, down his calves and into the bones of ankles and feet.  Serve, and kneel.  Nothing else.  He doesn't complain.</p>
<hr/><p>"Dawn approaches," she says at last, breaking the silence between them and the stillness he's fallen into.  Muscles creak in protest as he lifts his head to regard her standing in a whisper of silk and wind, that not-quite smile gracing her mouth again.  She walks to him, cup held in both hands and outstretched in offer, but -</p><p>Serve, and kneel.  She has issued no other command.</p><p>"I accept your offering," her next words to him and he <em>shivers</em>.  At last, <em>at last</em>, he knows, she's heard him.  And then her hands move, arranging the cup to rest in one palm while -</p><p>A single droplet of ambrosia clings to her skin, so close he can smell the sweetness of it, an offering of its own, from her to him.  Does he accept?  Does he <em>dare?</em></p><p>Lips close over her fingertip as he sucks, teeth lightly grazing the bend of her knuckle.  Their eyes meet, <em>hold</em>, and then her hand draws away to briefly grace his cheek.</p><p>"Until next you express your gratitude, Ares, god of war," she whispers, and is gone in the span of a blink, releasing him from her command.</p>
<hr/><p><em>Until next time, my goddess,</em> he thinks, stiff and sore as he goes through the motions of securing his armour back into place, a grin slashing across his face.  <em>Until next time</em> - the next battle in the dead of night, the next victory, the next heart beating its last at the end of his blade or those influenced by him.</p>
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